Tonight I am but a gerbil in the wheel of unoriginality. I exit the train at Myrtle-Broadway. Off of the right-side platform, there’s that famed fast-food trifecta. In all reality it is just indicative of what can feel like a food desert, in an area that was once almost exclusively working class. Historically a Hispanic neighborhood, the area has been infiltrated by faux-fur tails, Balenciaga City Bags, and overpriced ketamine connects. I must be up front with you all and admit—despite my lack of tail and K-dealer—I am part of the horde: another “artist” in Brooklyn wearing baggy jeans, drinking overpriced coffee.
As a society, we need to start holding real estate agencies and brokers accountable. I don’t think any of my fellow soft, moldable suburban “artists” want to displace people. We are all victims of greed—both of our own and that of society at large. I don’t think God is some white man in the sky, but capitalism personified is.
We all wanted to move to New York to be special, creative—original. The mecca of escapism. The land of the artist, or at least, the closest America will ever get to anything vaguely European. And like so many, we are faced with the idea that our talent and style—our hometown uniqueness—is a dime a dozen here.
If everyone is talented, who will make it? Of course those with family funding have a leg up on everyone else. Talent matters naught when you have time. Not worrying about rent helps—but, rent paid or not, many get lost in the social of it all. Clubs, bars—cool kids are everywhere! Are you self-aware enough to not drown in your own gluttony—can you handle a lack of structure? Can you use your leisure time to network or will you lose yourself in the grandeur of others? Are you hungry enough?
On the other hand, there are those who must help themselves. If you fall on this end of the spectrum, you are faced with the question—is this worth it? You move to a place that is expensive: is your dream worth pushing your nose all the way against the grindstone? Can you learn to accept the soft gnawing of anxiety? Do you have enough confidence in yourself to stay? Are you talented enough? Are you hungry enough?
The sidewalk outside of the Dunkin’-Checkers-Popeyes threesome is often occupied by fentanyl enthusiasts. It’s quieter than it used to be—at least late at night. One could surmise fent has long since surpassed uppers in popularity. What’s for dinner doesn’t really matter when you’re high.
Tonight is different though. For a second I thought I had gotten off at the wrong station. The closed fast-food establishments had been taken over by a sprawling flower stand. Every inch around the three entrances were covered in tiered tables of greens and pinks. The vegetation was almost able to absorb the hum of the fluorescent lighting that grotesquely illuminates chicken tenders from above. Almost.
People create beauty, even within concrete confines. For a moment, the silence of greens blanket the food desert with a cool embrace. Used needles and basket liners coated in a reflective sheen of grease turn to moss-covered stone. The flower vendor let me forget where I was. I miss home.
I miss the trees and the leaves, and the soft, warm breath of air, rolling over Lake Travis, failing to cut through stagnant summer heat. But I too am hungry. I must stay here. This is where I became an adult. There is nothing left for me in Texas. After a week back amongst the trees I become restless. There is no prey. I will fall into the pit of hometown despair if I do not return to the Dunkin’-Checker-Popeyes.
Annabelle Abel is a writer and painter who moved to New York in 2019. She is originally from Austin, Texas and now works out of Brooklyn. A version of this essay originally appeared on her Substack, which you can find here, her paintings here, and her Instagram here.
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